Luxury, Status Symbols, Communism
Sofie Mikhaylova’s designer brand obsession starts in the U.S.S.R. and ends with a of pair of moto boots.
A few months ago, I used a fake $10 knock-off Longchamp bag to carry my things because it was big enough to fit my laptop. While I tried to own it – “Yeah, haha, it's a fake,” – I couldn't. I still feel the sting of embarrassment when I look at it, or when I see a girl on the train with a real one.
Part of the embarrassment is because the real bag isn't even that expensive – it's around $150, which is a reasonable price for a purse, or so I've told myself. Another reason is that I looked up how to tell the difference between a real and fake one, and now my bag seems even more like the pathetic imitation it is. I've convinced myself that everybody cares, when in reality nobody does. And yet, when I finally do buy a Longchamp bag (and I will, because I am, and forever will be, what my girlfriend says I am: a brand whore), I’ll no doubt be embarrassed to be carrying it, too, when I see a girl on the train with a Prada bag. I’ll want to say “I left my Marc Jacobs at home!” As if that justified me carrying this cheap, nylon bag around – even though we all know MJ is nowhere near Prada’s league.
Since fifth grade, I’ve let brands determine who I am and who I wanted to be. And of course, it’s wrong. To me, I think it all relates back to money. I live in a world where having money means you’re the best, at the top, the winner. I long to be like an Olsen twin, rich enough to be casually throwing my Prada bag on the floor and treating my couture like it’s Coach.
My love for brands is hard to control, but it is something I want to address, and maybe even get out of my system.